Words of wisdom from the mouths of babes

If my dogs could have a movie name, they would go by the handle, "Thelma and Louise," the hit movie about two females who run away. Since both of my dogs are male, probably we may have to go with "The Wild Bunch."

It all started innocently enough when I went to the farm to saw some wood and, as usual, took the two bird dogs along so they could get some exercise. The usual pattern is they tear around for awhile and then come back and lay beside the truck, apparently ready to go home. On this particular Tuesday, the wood was loaded in "Old Red," and I was ready to head back to town, but the dogs were nowhere to be found. Two hours later, they were still AWOL, so I threw down some gloves and food, hoping they would come back to their home base, but no such luck.

Then began the cycle of twice-a-day checks at the farm; driving up and down the Redfield roads; and peering at the neighbors' yards to see if the dogs decided they needed a new home. This went on Tuesday night, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Ads were placed in the paper, and Tom Knight announced the disappearance over the radio, but still no word. By that time, I had given up hope that they were going to be found and, since we are about three weeks away from hunting season, I was kicking myself for allowing them the opportunity to disappear.

When I watch the crime shows on TV, they indicate that the longer the missing persons are gone, the less chance they will be found. Finally, on Friday afternoon, I received a call from a lady in Marmaton, saying she had a dog. Hoping it was the white English setter that shows a lot of promise, I asked her what color the dog was. She said it was a big brown dog, which meant she had latched onto Jake, the old German shorthair.

I took a flying trip to Marmaton, retrieved and loaded Jake into the back of the pickup, and hustled back into town. When I got back into the house, the answering machine was blinking, and this time another good Samaritan, living a mile east of Marmaton, had the white English setter in his yard. If it is possible to burn up gravel, I did so in going to retrieve the second dog.

Now the shorthair resembled a polish sausage on legs; he appeared to be little worse for the wear. On the other hand, you could count all of the ribs on the aptly named Drifter. He was also covered with cockleburs and ticks that he had managed to gather in his four days of freedom. Both dogs crawled into their doghouses, curled up on the hay, and barely moved for two days.

On the other hand, maybe their trip more resembled the Steve McQueen movie, "The Great Escape." At least they are back home under my watchful eye, and I have nothing but good things to say about the people who rounded up these rascals and gave me another chance to see what the bird season holds.